


Under the Weather

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anniversary, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the death of his wife, Watson can't quite bring himself to get out of bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Some soppy cuddling fic! I'm under some stress at the moment, and this is 500% comfort fic for me. Watson is sad, Holmes is not emotionally incapable, and then they snuggle. The end.

I tried to ignore the impending date, but as it came closer and closer it became harder and harder to do so. It would be five years since she’d passed away, and my life had changed so much in the meantime, I should have been grateful. But her loss weighed on me more heavily as the anniversary neared, and when I awoke on the very morning to an empty bed and a grey sky beyond the window, I knew the universe was speaking to me.

I lay quietly beneath the quilts, thinking of Mary. What would she say of me now? What could we have done, had she survived? What would and would not have happened between us? I had Holmes back, but it didn’t stop me from carrying a flame for her in my heart. Guilt gnawed at my gut, shame at the notion that I might have chosen this, now, over her.

The door downstairs banged open and shut, and I heard Holmes’s footsteps running up to the sitting room. He threw that door open as well, fully prepared for my surprise and delight as his return. No doubt he was wearing some ridiculous disguise. I buried my face deeper into the pillows, breathing in the fading scent of him, and waited.

“Watson!”

His step upon the stair to the second floor, measured but still somewhat rapid. He’d had a breakthrough. I ought to get up and see what he’d discovered, but I couldn’t make myself move.

“Watson?”

The bedroom door opened, and Holmes stuck his head in. He had a great grey wig on under a wide straw hat, and a ratty black overcoat, damp with rain. He caught sight of me in bed, curled up into a ball, and his face contracted with concern.

“Watson, my dear boy,” he said, coming closer and closing the door behind him. He hung the overcoat on a chair and pulled off hat and wig together. I watched, managing a smile, as he pulled and wiped the rest of the disguise off, transforming himself back into my brilliant detective in his shirtsleeves. “Whatever is the matter?” he asked.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said. That was the simplest truth. Holmes wouldn’t know the importance of the date, nor did I particularly expect him to understand.

He reached for me, testing the heat of my forehead with his palm. When it was normal, he pulled back and frowned. “Are you ill?”

I shook my head, shrugged. I wanted his hand back, wanted the comfort of his touch, but I wasn’t certain what he'd say to so sentimental a request.

“There’s been a break in the case, I suppose,” I rasped, and cleared my throat. In a more normal voice, I said, “Tell me."

Holmes studied me carefully for a moment, observing, deducing, and saying nothing. He glanced at the clock-- half past nine, much later than I usually lay in bed-- and his eyes narrowed. Then I saw the solution form in his mind and his face changed, relaxing in understanding and compassion.

“My dear fellow,” he said softly. "I will tell you, if you wish me to. Shall I stay and do it now, or shall I leave you alone and save it for later?"

"Stay," I said, and extracted one arm from the blankets to reach for him. 

He took my hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. With his other hand, he touched my forehead and pushed the hair off my brow. "Is that all right?" he asked, beginning to stroke my head gently.

I nodded.

"Good," he said, smiling. "Tell me if you wish me to stop. Now, the case. Well! I was counting upon the rain today to drive my quarry indoors, and it made for a very interesting morning."

I closed my eyes as Holmes talked, focusing on the feel of his fingers combing through my hair. He kept his rhythm slow and soothing, despite the excitement he'd had already, and the words washed over me. It was a better case than he'd expected, and of course he always drew satisfaction from a good disguise.

"John." The sound of my name made me open my eyes. Holmes was regarding me intently. "Should you like me a bit closer?" I felt like one of his delicate experiments: the centre of his attention.

"Yes," I admitted, my throat tight.

Holmes shifted, putting his knee on the bed, and said, "Turn over then, love."

I obeyed, rolling onto my other side to face the wall, keeping the blankets tight around me. Holmes climbed up behind me and lay himself along my spine, tucking his knees into the bend of mine and draping his arm over my middle. He put his hand on my wrists under the quilt and kissed the back of my head.

"I don't know if she'd be happy you were doing this," I said roughly, glad that he couldn't see my face anymore.

Holmes hummed thoughtfully into my ruffled hair. "I don't know if she would, either," he said. "But, selfishly, I'm glad I'm here to do it."

The next breath I took rattled in and out.

Holmes gave me a squeeze. "It's all right," he whispered. "I know you still love her."

The dam began to crack, and Holmes held me tightly as I shook.

It might have been ten minutes or an hour, but he never moved or eased his grip on me until I had wept myself dry. Then his gentle hands were smoothing my hair from my face and his lips were pressing against my wet cheeks. I snuffled pathetically and he said, "There now. Any better?"

I shrugged one shoulder, but I did feel a bit better. I wiped my face on the sheet and turned to peek up at him. He looked solemn, and he bent to kiss my forehead.

"I'll be right back," he said, and climbed out of bed again. He slipped out of the bedroom, calling for Mrs Hudson, and she met him on the landing. Despite their care in keeping their voices down, I was able to hear Holmes if I lay very still and held my breath.

"Doctor Watson is feeling a trifle under the weather today," he was saying, and Mrs Hudson made a noise of sympathy. "I have prescribed a day in bed and as little fuss made about the matter as possible."

She made some reply, her voice even softer and lower, and he said, "Yes, perhaps in an hour."

Then he was coming back up. I hadn't moved, intentionally, so he resumed his place behind me, holding me in his arms, securing my cocoon around me.

"What's in an hour?" I asked.

"Something to eat," he said in my ear. 

"I'm not hungry."

"You might be, in an hour."

I mumbled some sort of retort, but it hadn't any heart in it. Holmes pressed another kiss behind my ear.

"I'll eat it if you don't," he said.

"No you won't."

"Don't worry about me," Holmes said. "Today I'm meant to fuss over you, if you'll allow it."

"I suppose," I said into the pillow.

We were silent for a while. His arms around me were heavy and comforting, but I couldn't help comparing his embrace to that of my late wife. She had been small and delicate, finely made, and so fragile in her last months. I'd barely felt able to hold her, afraid I would crush her, afraid I would fall ill myself. It tore at me, my own inability to soothe her when she had needed me most. I was a coward.

"Shh," Holmes murmured, rocking me gently. I was weeping again, for myself as much as for her.

"I failed her," I managed. "I should have gone with her."

"To Bournemouth?"

"I had patients," I said. "I had work. And I didn't— I didn't like seeing her so sick. I knew she was dying, Holmes. And I sent her off alone anyway."

"They wouldn't have let you stay, you know," Holmes said, ever the soul of logic and reason.

"I should have gone to see her admitted, I should have been there that weekend, I should—" I lost my voice again. Holmes rubbed his hand up and down my upper arm and said nothing. I could picture Mary's face as we parted on the platform. She'd been upright and stoic, though I could tell she was already tired. The sanatorium had been her idea. We'd agreed that the fresh air would do her good. I thought just getting out of London for a while would set her to rights. Instead, it was barely a week before a letter came to inform me of her passing.

And I hadn't even been there.

Two people I'd loved had died then— or so I believed— and I hadn't been present for either. I hadn't said goodbye properly, not to my wife and not to Holmes.

I opened my bleary eyes again and squirmed my way out of Holmes's grip in order to turn over. He embraced me again as soon as I was still, and we stared at one another.

"You look awful," he said.

"I feel bloody awful," I replied, glad for the sudden and inappropriate reprieve.

"I love you," he said.

I clutched at his shirt front. "Don't leave me again."

"I don't have any plans to." He slid one hand underneath my head and cradled my face between his palms. With his thumbs he began to massage my temples, exactly where a headache was building. "Not until you send me away."

"I'll never do that," I replied.

"Then I'll never go. I made that mistake once already; I do not intend to repeat it."


End file.
